Long before the diamond ever landed in modern possession, it belonged to a man named Gregory Stratford. At that time, it was not part of a ring, but rather the main facet of a decorative hair comb made for his favorite daughter’s 26th birthday.

Much like his daughter, Evelyn, the comb was petite and refined, with delicate teeth to hold it in place. In the whirls of dusty silver and scattered precious gems sat the massive emerald-cut stone, gleaming like a champagne-colored smile.

A hush of admiration fell over the party guests as Evelyn pulled it from the tiffany-blue box. She turned excitably to a friend seated on the settee beside her and beckoned her to affix the comb within Evelyn’s auburn curls.

Now, Evelyn was a rather small woman, delicate-boned, with a tiny waist. She walked with a graceful flit of flighty steps. Not twenty minutes later, she excused herself from the party, but as she ascended upstairs, her slipper became entangled in the carpet at the top, and she tripped.

Evelyn landed at the bottom, the sound like sticks breaking. Silver teeth opened a laceration some two-inches thick across her scalp, and not long after, Evelyn’s bird-like charm grew forever stiff.

Gregory blamed the hair piece. He sold it to a shopkeeper two towns over for the price of a ha’penny, where it fell into obscurity, at least for now.

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